The River That Sings

Gauri stood by the edge of the Doyamoti River, her fingers brushing against the delicate reeds that danced with the breeze. The sun was setting, casting a warm orange glow over the water, as if the entire village of Bhairavpur was wrapped in the tender embrace of twilight. The river had always been a part of her life, singing its familiar tune through every season, every memory.

She had once dreamed of becoming a musician. The sarod, her Baba’s favorite instrument, echoed in her heart, and she had often imagined herself on stage, playing for an audience that could feel her soul in every note. Baba used to encourage her, saying, “Gauri, the river has a song, and you are the only one who hears it. One day, you will sing it to the world.”

But life, as it often does, had other plans.

Bhairavpur was a small village, where the Doyamoti River connected lives and souls, much like the way the sarod strings connected notes. The Majhis—boatmen—plied their boats across the river, ferrying people from Bhairavpur to the nearby villages. The villagers had a rhythm, an unspoken harmony. The Majhis would sing songs while rowing, their voices blending with the river's murmur. Fishmongers would call out their fresh catch, children would run around collecting donations for the Durga Puja, and the smell of freshly fried jilipi (jalebis) would drift in the air.

The heart of the village wasn’t just the Doyamoti—it was the people. People like Soma Kaki, who ran the local sweet shop and always gave Gauri a free Mishti whenever she passed by. There was Sukumar Da, the elderly Majhi who had known Gauri since she was a child, always teasing her with stories of the river’s “secret treasures.” And then there was Master Ji, the village teacher, who had been both a mentor and a second father to Gauri.

But things had started to change. Baba had grown weaker, his hands no longer strong enough to row across the river as he once did. Each journey was a struggle, and every trip took more out of him. Gauri’s heart ached to see her father like that, but Baba would always smile, “The river has taken care of me, and now, I must take care of it.”

Gauri didn’t understand. Why was he so attached to the old ways? Why couldn’t he see that a bridge would make life easier? She had started dreaming of something different now—not music, but engineering. A bridge across the Doyamoti would bring development. It would make crossing the river faster, especially during the monsoons when the current was too strong for the Majhis to row.

One evening, after the Durga Puja Chanda collection, Gauri approached Master Ji. “Master Ji, I’ve been thinking. What if we had a bridge across the river? Wouldn’t it make life easier for everyone?”

Master Ji, always calm, paused before responding. “Gauri, progress is necessary, but sometimes it comes at a cost we don’t realize. The boats, the river, they are not just a means of transport—they are the heartbeats of this village. A bridge might connect the land, but it could disconnect the people.”

“Disconnect the people?” Gauri frowned, not understanding. “But a bridge would make things better.”

Master Ji smiled softly, his eyes filled with the wisdom of years. “Maybe, but what about Sukumar Da? What happens to the Majhis when their boats are no longer needed? What about the people who sit together, waiting for the boat, sharing stories and laughter? The bridge may be progress, but it might take away more than it gives.”

Baba, too, echoed these thoughts. Gauri often found herself frustrated, caught between wanting to help her father and seeing the necessity of change. One rainy evening, as Baba lay in bed, too weak to move, Gauri tried to convince him again.

“If we had a bridge, Baba, you wouldn’t be suffering like this. The river is too difficult to cross now.”

Baba’s voice was weak, but his words were clear. “A bridge might connect the two sides of land, Gauri, but it will make the river’s song disappear. People will forget what it means to listen to the river, to wait, to slow down. A bridge brings speed, but it takes away time.”

Gauri didn’t know how to respond. She couldn’t understand why Baba, and even Master Ji, couldn’t see the need for change.

Then, tragedy struck. One night, Baba’s fever worsened, and the storm made it impossible for anyone to cross the river for medicine. By the time the storm passed, Baba had already slipped away. His last words to Gauri echoed in her mind: “Don’t forget the river’s song.”

Her heart broke. She had failed him. The bridge, she believed, would have saved him. In the days that followed, Gauri made a decision. She would honor Baba’s memory by becoming an engineer and building the bridge he could never cross.

Years passed, and Gauri succeeded. She studied hard, secured scholarships, and became an engineer. She returned to Bhairavpur with the news that the government had finally approved a bridge across the Doyamoti.

But when Gauri returned, something felt wrong. Sukumar Da’s boat was docked on the shore, unused. Soma Kaki’s sweet shop was quieter, and the familiar laughter by the riverbank had faded. The Majhis were no longer ferrying people across the river. The village had changed in ways she hadn’t expected.

The bridge was under construction, its towering frame casting a shadow over the river. Gauri watched as workers hammered steel into the ground, and suddenly, she felt a deep pang of guilt. The river’s song was gone. The connection between people—the slow, simple moments of waiting, talking, laughing—had disappeared.

One evening, as she sat by the river, Master Ji joined her. “You’ve done what you set out to do, Gauri. The bridge is almost complete.”

“But at what cost, Master Ji?” Gauri’s voice trembled. “Baba… he always told me the river had a song. I didn’t understand it then, but now… I think I do. The bridge is progress, but it’s also taking away something precious.”

Master Ji placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We all learn in time. Your father wasn’t against progress, Gauri. He just didn’t want the village to lose its soul.”

The realization hit her like a wave. In her desire to build the bridge, she had overlooked the importance of the community, the traditions, and the connection to the river that had defined their lives. The bridge would bring convenience, but it would also erase the simple moments that gave life meaning.

As the days passed, Gauri made peace with the changes, but her heart ached for what was lost. She spent her last evening in Bhairavpur by the river, listening to the song that had once been so clear to her. The boats were gone, but in the gentle lapping of the water against the shore, she could still hear a faint melody—a reminder of the life she had once known.

Before leaving, she visited Baba’s resting place, placing a single flower by his grave. “I understand now, Baba,” she whispered, her voice filled with emotion. “The bridge connects us, but it also separates us. I wish I had seen it sooner.”

As Gauri crossed the bridge for the first time, she couldn’t help but feel a bittersweet sadness. She had accomplished her goal, but the cost was greater than she had ever imagined.

“It didn’t have to be this way,” she thought, as the village and the river faded into the distance, leaving behind only memories—memories of a time when the river’s song was loud and clear when the boats carried not just people, but the stories that bound them together.

And in her heart, Gauri knew that no bridge, no matter how grand, could ever replace that.